


back to a first glance feeling on new york time, (when you fit my poems like a perfect rhyme)

by lavenderandthyme



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 4 + 1 things, F/M, OT3 if you squint, an ode to new york, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 22:33:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20235457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderandthyme/pseuds/lavenderandthyme
Summary: “Now, come and help me pick out my best ‘please kidnap me outfit’,” she turns and walks towards the bedroom, pulling lightly on his sleeve, he goes as if she was twice his size. “-I’m thinking schoolgirl vibes, he looks like that kind of guy, don't you think?”Steve falters, his eyebrows shooting up.“My god, you’re utterly insane.”She tugs on his sleeve again.“Oh, do keep up dear”-4 + 1 moments of Steve and Natasha in New York





	back to a first glance feeling on new york time, (when you fit my poems like a perfect rhyme)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This is awful writing - I'm talking really shoddy stuff- horrible pacing, tenses all over the damn place, and just bad, writing - I'm sorry.  
This has been sitting unfinished for a few months and I finally finished it! But, I've only read through it once or twice so please forgive the god awful amount of glaring mistakes - I need someone who will read and edit my work for me because I'm primarily the laziest person you will ever meet.
> 
> Anyway
> 
> title comes from Holy Ground by Taylor Swift (Red is a lyrical masterpiece of an album, what can i say?)
> 
> thank you, and enjoy!

** I **

The first thing Steve thinks about, when the portal closes, the dust has settled and Stark is back to making sarcastic remarks again, is Agent Romanoff. Or more specifically, the particular whereabouts of Agent Romanoff, in a way that was not as creepy as it sounded. He knew she’d been up at a Stark tower to shut the portal, and was still there when they went to detain Loki, but she’d somehow managed to have disappeared between then and now. 

For some reason, he found his eyes tracking their surroundings for her every few minutes or so, out of a raw curiosity, he decided, more than anything else. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, how she’d looked jumping off his shield, leaping without a second thought. It was almost as if he could see it in slow motion, burned behind his eyelids. Her exhilarated grin – small but noticeable, spreading across her face mid-air, the curl of her hair cutting through the air, the colour as rich as the blood staining her neck. She’d been like a missile, slicing through the air unobstructed, unstoppable, untouchable. It had sent a rush of adrenaline through him at the time, and now, now he couldn’t stop that grin from flashing across his mind every time he blinked. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, he heard her voice carry around the corner, right before the lady herself appeared in view. It was rude, awfully rude really, the way his attention was immediately stolen from the police officer standing in front of him, and given to her on a silver platter. His mother would’ve smacked him for it, he knew it, _ It’s __not polite to stare, Steve. _Still, he couldn’t quite force his eyes away, no matter how hard he tried. 

Her eyes caught his over the cop’s shoulder, fiercely green even over the distance, her face brightened ever so slightly as she waved her fingertips at him, still talking lowly on the phone pressed to her ear. He finished his conversation, politely mind you, Sarah Rogers still raised him with manners, thank you very much, whether or not he kept them was another matter, and made his way over to Agent Romanoff. He reaches her just as her own conversation ends, eyes rolling at the person on the other end. She draws the phone away from her ear, letting it fall to her side before smiling at him gently, cautiously, even. 

“Captain.” 

Her voice was light, but he caught the way her eyes flickered around him to scan the crowd, shoulders relaxing when she spots Barton leaning against a building, his own phone by his ear, lazy grin on his face, seemingly unbothered by the mess around him. 

“Agent Romanoff.” 

Her eyes flit back to his instantly, shockingly bright green against the dust settling around them. 

“Natasha, please,” she speaks quickly, smile widening when he nods. “-I wanted to thank you, for the, uh – for the boost,” 

He can’t help but smile back at her. He doesn’t think anyone could, help themselves but to smile, that was. 

“Anytime,” Steve looks at her for a moment, takes in her face, chiselled and pale like marble, but stained still with blood, some of her own but mainly that of the chitari. “-we make a good team.” 

She hums in return, eyes narrowing slightly at him, before raising her left hand, waving her cell next to her face. 

“Someone else is inclined to agree with you there, Cap,” 

“Steve, call me Steve, please,” his tone is a little too urgent to be casual, but she doesn’t tease him for it, the corners of her mouth twitch a little, however. 

“Well, _ Steve _ , S.H.I.E.L.D is likely going to be pairing us up at some point in the near future, think you’re up for it, partner?” her eyes sparkle, and Steve hopes his cheeks are just hot from adrenaline, but honestly he was still just as bad at talking to girls as he ever was. It was always easier when there was a war going on, at least when it came to talking to girls. Back in those days, nobody had anything left to lose, what you saw is what you got – these days, it was a minefield. Agent Romanoff’s - _ Natasha’s, her name is Natasha - _mouth opens to continue, but Tony’s whines for Shawarma - 

_ ‘Seriously, what is this swary shit you keep going on about?’ _

_ ‘ _ _ Prepare to be introduced to a whole new world of amazing food, Barton _ _ ’ _ -, chased out any continuing thought she had. Her smile dropped instantly into an expression of what Steve could only describe as utter disdain, the kind you have after putting up with someone longer than you thought you’d have to. He grins at her. 

“His majesty summons,” 

“Aint that the truth.” 

Her arms are still crossed, but she smiles at him again. 

“Was that a Brooklyn twang I heard there, Captain Rogers?” 

His cheeks become a lot hotter, and she laughs – rich and light and so, so beautiful. 

\- 

Later, they’ve taken over a little restaurant downtown, and Steve is very pleased to find out that Shawarma was not some sort of modern ritualistic cult ceremony, but instead a kind of flatbread with meat, still a little too exotic for him and his army palate, but something he was more than happy to eat after the day they’d had. Her could almost laugh at how casual it all seemed, the restaurant owners mopping the floor around them as they sat and ate, making quiet conversation, after having fought aliens the whole afternoon. 

He tried not to look at the walls too long, there are pictures from the war, right towards the very top. Portraits of soldiers, faded pictures of battalions next to tanks, he stops his eyes as they catch on his own trading card, ripped slightly at the edges, the colours washed out with time, perhaps the ideal was too. He doesn’t linger on it right there, instead files it away in a little box where he keeps all of his not-so-peachy thoughts. 

Natasha was sat to his right, hair still bright as ever, even under the layer of dust and grime that seemed to cover the lot of them. She turns to him out of nowhere, what seems like mid-conversation with Barton, whose leg is resting behind on her on the chair, and smiles at his picked-at food. 

“Hey,” her voice is soft as she pushes her tray towards him, “-you want my tomatoes? Can’t stand the things.” 

Her tray was empty apart from the pile of the tomato slices piled in the corner, he’d eaten all of his tomato first, the one thing he could instantly recognise in his tray. When he was younger, good tomatoes were always hard to come by, specially so once the war started, but he’d always find himself craving them. Her smile was tentative, shy almost, if the Black Widow was capable of shyness, and she pushes her tray towards him again, shaking it enticingly. He takes the tray from her with a smile of his own, leaving his own on the table in front of him. 

“Thanks, Natasha,” 

He tests her name out on his tongue, pleasantly surprised with how easily it rolls off, and she looks at him, wide-eyed and blinking for a moment, like she’d forgotten that it was her name. He wonders for a second if, perhaps, it hadn’t been her name forever, but stops himself as quickly as he conceives that thought. That, was most definitely, above his clearance level. She narrows her eyes at him again, smile spreading ever so slightly as she nods, turning back to Barton without another word, dropping any slices of tomato she finds into his tray silently. 

** I ** ** I **

They had managed to escape an undercover mission in New York for the first three or so years of their partnership, so really, Steve thinks they had this coming. Their covert operations so far had mainly been focused in Europe and occasionally, namely once, in Russia - mainly due to the fact he had one of the most recognisable faces in America, at least according to BuzzFeed, (or at least according to Natasha who claims she read it on BuzzFeed). 

Steve thinks then, that S.H.I.E.L.D must be desperate, if he and Natasha are being put undercover in New York, the one place they, _ read him _, can and will be recognised on most, if not all, street corners. The mission is easy enough, too easy in fact for the both of them, really, but he tries not to linger on the implications of that, because he likes working with Natasha, and if they’re being tested, then he’d very much like to pass. 

They were posing as a couple in a trendy district in Brooklyn, not too far from where Steve and Bucky used to live, but he does not let his mind wander there, either. (He let his feet wander there, just once, and found a CVS where the building where they’d lived once stood. Their apartment, ash and dust, just like Bucky. He’d come back to the apartment they’d been placed in and walked straight into the bedroom and shut the door without saying a word to Natasha. When he woke, hours later, eyes puffy and tight, she had silently made room for him next to her on the couch, freshly dyed brown hair softly glowing in the blue light of the television, jammed her ice-block-feet under his thighs and passed him her steaming mug of tea. It was still full, she hated tea.) 

They’re supposed to be keeping tabs on a guy living down the hall, late-twenties, ex-army task-force turned data analysist who had a suspicious amount of interest in Soviet war files, at least enough interest for it to count as simply hobby reading. The mark, William Miller, seemed harmless enough to Steve, but Natasha was constantly reminding him that he was probably the most trusting person she’d ever met, said it was his Pieces rising or something ridiculous. 

He agreed that he wasn’t a naturally suspicious person though, not in the way Natasha was, at all. Natasha who viewed with the world with permanent scepticism through narrowed eyes. Still, he tried to view the whole situation with the innocent until proven guilty approach. Even he had to admit, however, that Will’s seeming fascination, borderline obsession, with Natasha, or Nina as he knows her, would be suspicious to the blind. 

It had started as mainly innocent, lingering glances, wide smiles and cold stares at Steve as he obviously tried to figure out their dynamic, a typical crush, he’d thought (and sure, maybe Steve had laid it on a bit thick after that with the PDA, something he usually hated, finding any excuse to touch Natasha in front of Will. It was all for the cover, of course. She’d noticed instantly, eyes narrowed at the side of his face when he’d stuck himself to her side like glue, but only sniggered once they’d turned the corner and pushed him away gently). Natasha could take care of herself, something he’d known since the first time he’d laid eyes on her on the hellicarrier, and something she’d never failed to remind him of every time he did anything for her, every single time. He couldn’t help but laugh, when she did, because he knows now exactly how Bucky must’ve felt dealing with his stubborn ass in the 40s. 

Anyway, Natasha can take care of herself, well-known fact, which is the only reason why Steve wasn’t immediately worried when he comes up the stairs to find the mark leaning over Natasha, hand gripping her arm tightly and pulling little, his words unintelligible as they’re whispered in her ear. Steve tried not to snort when he sees them, really tried. Natasha's expression was bored more than anything, slightly uncomfortable, but her shoulders relaxed when she caught Steve out of the corner of her eye, the sides of her mouth turning up into a brief smile. Miller must’ve thought it was something that he’d said, by the way he pulled her closer, still failing to notice Steve over Natasha's shoulder. Steve only started to feel suspicious when Miller’s hand tightened on Natasha's arm, seemingly trying to pull her into his apartment. 

Steve cleared his throat, swallowing his smile when the mark jumps back, letting Natasha go. She releases a short breath and stepped into Steve, curling herself into his side, hand gripping the back of his t-shirt tightly, face turned away from where the mark is standing in the doorway, his eyes wide. This is the first thing that strikes Steve funny, because fear was not something Natasha showed, or even experienced, often. Uncertainty, maybe, but never overly obviously, only visible to those who knew her tells. If she was scared, there was reason, and he’d read her completely wrong, which increases his worry tenfold. He asks her if she’s alright, lowly, into her hair, eyes flicking up to watch the mark when she nods quickly in reply, tightening her fist slightly. 

The second thing that strikes him funny, once he’s tucked Natasha under his arm, is Miller himself. 

He looks rough, in simple terms. His skin is unhealthily sallow looking, and after a moment Steve realises he’s covered in a layer of sweat. His eyes look bloodshot, and the dark circles surrounding them do not suggest a healthy sleeping pattern by any means. He doesn’t say anything to Steve, doesn’t even look at him really, his eyes fixed on the side of Natasha's head, breathing shallowly. 

Steve nods at him tersely, but pulls Natasha around the corner before he even has time to gage the mark’s reaction, shutting and locking their door behind them, deadbolting the chain before turning to face Natasha, cupping her jaw to lift her face when her eyes remain on the floor. She winces a little when his keys press into her cheek, but meets his eyes all the same. Her pulse was racing against his fingers, but he drops his hands when she lets out a soft curse, moving them to push her hair away from her face before dropping them altogether. 

“What the hell was that, Natasha?” 

He circles his fingers round her wrist and pulls her away from the door, cursing himself when he notices the red marks lingering on her arm from where will had gripped her, purple bruises already starting to form. She pulls her arm out of her grip with a small shake of her head, eyebrows furrowed. 

“It’s fine, Steve, they’re just bruises,” her voice is soft, but he can hear the wobble threatening to break through. He realises her hands are shaking, ever so slightly, but enough to make him worry. She takes a shaky inhale. “-he was speaking Russian, saying things he definitely shouldn’t know about KGB operatives.” 

“Shit,” The corners of her mouth raise into a smug grin, but he fixes her with a glare before she can even think about reprimanding him. Her face drops when he speaks again. “- do you think he knows who you are?” 

“If he does, he didn’t say anything,” she bites her lip, “-but if he suspects I’m Russian, he’s probably not far off finding out.” 

“I told you that drinking him under the table was not going to help us in the long run, Americans cannot hold vodka like that.” 

“My drinking habits are not what tipped him off, Rogers,” he raises his eyebrows at her and she groans, “Oh for fuck’s sake, this was not meant to be this difficult! Juvenile, Fury said! Perfect for you after that shitshow in Brussels.” 

“I knew this was test! - and, hey - Brussels was not a shitshow!” 

“Don’t whine, Steve, it’s unbecoming,” He opens his mouth to protest that C_ aptain _ _ A _ _ merica does not whine, thank you very much _, but shuts it when she sits down in a chair at the kitchen table, her plan face taking over her expression. He sighs. 

“Somehow, I don’t think the plan is going to be extraction, huh?” 

She smiles at him, it's vicious, and all the answer he could need. Which is -_ Fuck no. _ She remains silent for a few minutes, picking at her fingernails. He tries again. 

“Fine, can’t we just kill him then, quick and easy,” 

She raises her eyebrows at him, visibly shocked for a moment, her hands dropping to the table. 

“What happened to all that ‘innocent until proven guilty’ gabble?” 

His eyes drop to her arm, where finger shaped bruises are darkening by the second, she snorts. 

“Who would’ve thought it, America’s golden boy has a possessive streak, Nina’s a lucky gal,” his eyes snap to her own, green and mischievous, glittering in the dark of the kitchen, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move to turn a light on, neither does she, despite that both of them are beginning to strain in the minimal light. She takes a breath. 

“We’re not going to kill him, at least not straight away, we need him to talk, find out what he knows and where he got his information from, the inner workings of the KGB aren’t exactly public knowledge.” 

“And how exactly are we going to do that without you being killed by Soviet obsessed maniac.” 

“Well Cap, let me tell you how, _ we _ are going to let Miller kidnap me,” 

He blinks at her for a moment, then shakes his head. 

“Absolutely not, Natasha,” she furrows her brows and he knows what’s coming next before she even opens her mouth, he cuts her off. “-and this is not about your capability, it’s about the risk level, it’s insane, suicidal even,” 

She snorts again. 

“And all our other missions thus far have been what, relaxing getaways?” 

He crosses his arms as to not snap at her; she lets out a sharp exhale. 

“Steve, just think about it for a minute, it’s perfect. He gets to tie me up in a chair, think he’s in control, and monologue to me all his secrets before he kills me – it's textbook maniac, only we can just skip the dying part on my end.” 

He sighs, but backs down anyways, he knows she’s right deep, very deep, down. 

“I don’t like it.” 

“I’m not asking you to like it, Rogers, I’m just asking you to come in and hit him over the head with that pretty shield of yours when he gets to the killing part.” 

She stands up and stalks towards him, disappearing into the shadows for a second before appearing again in front of him. 

“Kidnappings were the Red Room’s version of school trips, I've done this thousands of times, it’s just tactics.” 

He searches her eyes for a second, glowing catlike in the dark. 

“You shouldn’t have to though, Natasha.” 

She stares at him a for a moment, unblinking, and then rolls her eyes. 

“Please don’t start with your self-help philosophy crap, Steve,” He starts to protest, just as stubborn as she is, but she pouts a little and he can't help but smile, she smiles back warmly. 

“Now, come and help me pick out my best ‘please kidnap me outfit’,” she turns and walks towards the bedroom, pulling lightly on his sleeve, he goes as if she was twice his size. “-I’m thinking schoolgirl vibes, he looks like that kind of guy, don't you think?” 

Steve falters, his eyebrows shooting up. 

“My god, you’re utterly insane.” 

She tugs on his sleeve again. 

“Oh, do keep up dear” 

** I I ** ** I **

****The irony of his birthday falling on July 4th is not lost on Steve, in fact he thinks, from a twistedly humorous perspective, it’s probably fate’s way of showing his destiny as ‘America’s Righteous Man’, if you believed in all that stars and planets nonsense. 

There were about a million and one events celebrating him, and America’s independence, too, but these days the parties usually celebrated the symbol of Captain America. As he stood at the living room window from his Brooklyn apartment, he could see many of these parties taking place. Red, white and blue fireworks filled the sky, reflecting off the windows of the buildings making up the skyline in front of him. He chuckled to himself, all these birthday parties for him, and he was at his apartment, alone, with a glass of scotch that he knew would do nothing to him. He took another sip anyway, trying not to think about what Peggy would have to say about the cluster of skyscrapers that made up the modern-day New York skyline – a far cry from the war struck New York they knew. 

As if on a cue, a knock on his front door, (some ironic phrase concerning knocking and consciousness flits across the forefront of his mind, but it dissolves before he can follow it any further), breaks him out of his trance, forcing his gaze away from the window, the fireworks still catching in the corner of his eye. 

He's not sure who he was expecting, Stark, maybe, trying to drag him out for a night of boozy celebrations, or perhaps Sam, despite the fact Steve had spoken to him earlier and knew he was in Oregon with his sister. Anyway, point was, on the list of people he would’ve expected on his doorstep at ten at night, Natasha Romanoff was not very high ranking, (which, thinking back on it hours later, is stupid on his part, to think he could predict her movements at all). 

He doesn’t react for a moment, simply stares at her amused facial expression, his own face frozen in his best impression of a guppy. The last time he’d seen her in person was at the end of April, in San Jose airport at 4am, the pink light of the sunrise reflecting off the copper of her hair as she walked away, throwing a soft grin and kiss over her shoulder at him. Of course, he’d seen her in various surveillance images since then, Athens, Seattle– even Moscow, surprisingly enough. Each image he’d manage to find was the same, the familiar grin thrown over her shoulder at the camera, and Steve knew she was letting herself get caught to humour him. 

The same grin was on her face now, and she was leaning in his doorway casually, a bottle of vodka under one arm, ornate flask under the other, duffle bag at her feet. Her hair was straight, a little lighter and about shoulder length, he liked it, he told her as much, and the grin widened. 

“Are you going to stand there and flirt with me all evening, Rogers, or are you going to let me in, huh? I come bearing gifts for the birthday boy” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes, opening the door a little wider to let her brush pass him, a waft of her perfume hits him, and he tries to inhale as surreptitiously as he can. It was the same as it always had been, woody and a little floral, and he was hit with visions of USO showgirls whenever he caught a whiff. That was probably the one thing he appreciated most about Natasha, that, for all of her covers and constant changing, she was really a creature of habit and, at least the Natasha Steve knew, remained overall solid and unchanging. A constant, even under her frequent change in appearance. He shut the front door and followed her into the living room, she’d put down the vodka, and was standing in front of the window, right where he was a minute beforehand. The fireworks were still going off across the city, the explosions lighting up across her face. He looked at her for a moment, noticing the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and the how the red of the Catherine Wheels was visible in the reflection of her eyes. He moved to turn on a lamp, noticing how dark the room was finally, and she turned her head, broken from her trance. 

“Party spirit left you in your old age, cap?” her tone was teasing, but the green of her eyes was piercing, a little too piercing, as they searched his face. 

“Something like that,” he rubbed the back of his neck and moved to stand next to her again, eyes fixed on a particularly enthusiastic fireworks display just behind Stark Tower, Tony's doing, no doubt. She’s still staring at him, in that same soft, piercing way that he would call fond if he didn’t know better, and Steve found himself taking a breath and opening his mouth without thinking. 

“It feels wrong to celebrate, when the people I most want to celebrate with aren’t here.” 

(In truth he had no idea about Peggy, not sure he wanted to know whether she was alive or not. He had the file, tried to turn the cover page countless times, but never could. He was too much of a coward.) 

Understanding shifts into her gaze, and she smiles, a little sadly, her eyes never dropping. 

“Well, Rogers, you’re in luck - I happen to be an A-star moper, top of the class,” he drops his head and smiles, his eyes fall to the other bottle she’d been holding, noticing the extravagant gold embellishments curving around the side of the bottle. 

“Is that-” 

“Asgardian mead, straight from the god himself,” she passes the flask to him with a grin, eyes sparkling in the light of the city, her fingers are cold when they brush against his, and his eyes catch on a faint tan line on her wrist from where her wrist-watch usually sits. He studies the bottle in hands for a minute or two, tracing the raised patterns with his fingers, looking up when he hears her moving around behind him. 

He turns just as she is pulling something from her duffle. She moves slowly towards him and holds it out tentatively, as if she was nervous for his reaction. 

“It’s not much, but you’re not the easiest person to buy for – too much choice,” 

His eyebrows furrow in confusion as he sets down the flask on a sideboard, delicately taking the rectangular object from her hands. It was wrapped in white tissue paper, and he rips through it unceremoniously, hyper-aware of her eyes watching his every move. Underneath the paper lies a leather-bound sketchbook, the initials _ S.G.R _imprinted in the top left-hand corner, he opens to find a pencil tucked into the spine, and a note in Natasha's neat handwriting spanning the first page. 

_ For whenever inspiration hits, or you need an escape. _

_ I hope you’ll show me your world someday, Steve. _

_ Love, _

_ Nat. _

He reads it twice over before he shuts the book, placing it down gently on the same sideboard before pulling Natasha in for a tight hug, his thanks given silently. She lets out a high-pitched squeak initially, but relaxes into his hold pretty quickly, leaning into his chest and curling her hands into his t-shirt. 

“Happy Birthday, Steve” 

Her whisper is almost lost to the echoes of the ongoing fireworks, but he tightens his arms around her and drops his face to rest in her hair, revelling in the smell of her perfume and how her fists tighten in the cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer. For the first time since before the ice, since Bucky used to save up to buy him his favourite cake, or his mother, god rest her soul, would take him for cola as a treat, he’s genuinely happy it’s his birthday. 

** I ** ** V **

S.H.I.E.L.D falls, and suddenly the life Steve thought he’d built for himself falls to shit. 

Natasha gives him the file, _ Bucky's file _ , ( _ his _ _ B _ _ ucky, _but yet not his Bucky but not quite The Winter Soldier, either.) He wonders if he imagines the spooked look that crops up on Natasha’s face a few times in the days, weeks, after the fall. It’s unsettling, to see her unbalanced, face pale, eyes wide and unfocused. It’s the kind of look that, in movies, is often followed by someone saying something along the lines of ‘you look like you’ve seen a ghost’. Funnily enough, they’d called him that at first, before, in a hospital in D.C. Steve can hardly remember it now, before, but remembers the lights had been too bright, harsh and clinical in the way they always were in hospitals, and whenever he thinks back on it he remembers an overwhelming scent of bubble-gum, sickly, and the lingering taste of it on Natasha's lips later on. 

Anyway, Natasha gives him the file, the spooked look still stuck behind her eyes, despite her mask of calm indifference. He doesn’t pretend he can't see through her; she doesn’t pretend that he hasn’t been able to this whole time. When she leaves, flashing him a soft smile over her shoulder, (again, he’d be tempted to call it fond, but he knew better, Natasha was not someone who fell in the habit of becoming _ fond _), he realises the air felt different, shifted. She disappears, completely, and for the most part he lets her, no surveillance pictures, no tabs, just the occasional google search to ensure safety. She’s gone for 8 months or so, and then she’s not. 

He's taken to coming into the city, finding small trendy cafes down back alleys with garden spaces, taking over a table in the back for a month or so, and then moving on the next one. He hasn’t run out yet, 7 cafes and counting. The coffee is mediocre at best at his latest, often burnt and oddly sour tasting, but it’s served nicely enough, and their shortbread is far superior. Anyway, he takes over a table at the back of the garden, and he sketches. 

Throughout his whole life, the one thing he’s valued, is routine. This rotating café search is his current routine, in replacement of the structure and strict routine that S.H.I.E.L.D had provided. He makes sure to leave after a month, mainly just to prove he can, to prove he’s free to leave whenever he wants – to whom he is trying to prove this to, he’s not utterly certain, but he’s got a pretty solid guess. 

It’s the second Monday in his 7th café when a shadow falls over his sketchbook, blocking his light. He doesn’t flinch. The chair opposite him scrapes just a little and there’s soft clink when a cup is placed on the glass table. He doesn’t look up immediately, savours his last memory of her for a moment, smudging the edges of his sketch and letting the sounds of the city overwhelm him for a second- and yet. And yet, all he can think about, is how she’s still wearing the same perfume, after all these years. 

-woody, and a little floral, hints of bergamot - 

He looks up finally, shutting the sketchbook, the one she’d given him for his birthday the year before last, gently. Her hair is shorter and curly again, similar to how it was when they’d first met. Looking back at the helicarrier from where he was now, on a hipster terraced café in the centre of Manhattan, Steve couldn’t help but smile. It felt like a different world to him now, a fairy-tale children’s book, fuzzy and faded at the edges. 

“You changed your hair.” 

He steals her mug and takes a sip, instantly grimacing at the overwhelming rush of sweetness, pushing it back towards her with a gag. 

Something in her eyes flash, the corners of her mouth twitching up in way they do when she’s trying to be mysterious. He lets out the breath he’d been holding for eight months, and feels something shift back in the air, almost like his airways opening up again after an asthma attack. Her eyes flick behind him for a milli-second, and she opens her mouth, takes a breath and shifts her gaze over his shoulder again. 

“I have a gift for you,” 

He raises his eyebrows, opening his mouth to reply with something snarky, but shuts it again when something, someone, shifts behind him. 

When he whips around he has to take a few deep breaths, because he feels like he’s choking on air for a few seconds, then he feels like he might throw up, and then he feels like he might pass out, but he’s swallows it down and stands up, pushing the dizziness away because it’s Bucky, _ his _ _ B _ _ ucky _. 

His hair is shorter, softer looking, and his eyes. His eyes are icy blue, the colour of the sky on a winter morning, and it made Steve feel the warmest he’d felt in years. 

“You’re getting sloppy, pal” 

The smirk is the same, and Steve has to lean on the chair, gripping the metal a little tighter than he should to stop himself from fainting, or crushing Bucky into a hug. 

“What, - how-, Nat?” 

His grip tightens on the metal of the chair, feeling it creak a little, as he tries to pull himself together, but then Natasha is there, hand on his arm, and he’d forgotten she was there for a second, but now she’s right there in front of him, hair glowing in the burst of sunshine that had managed to peak through the thick layer of cloud above them. He can’t stop staring at her, thinks that she looks like she should be the patron saint of something or other. His grip on the chair loosens a little and her hand runs down his arm, her fingers uncurling into his palm, interlacing their hands and pulling him towards Bucky. Bucky, with his eyes the colour of morning sky, angels, the pair of them. 

“James and I,” she looks back over her shoulder for a second, eyes sparkling, “Let’s say, we bumped into each other on the road.” her smile is secretive, and Bucky returns it, their eyes meeting for a moment. Steve feels like he should feel jealous, but Natasha's hand is still his own, squeezing, and Bucky - _ his _ _ B _ _ uc _ _ k _ _ ! _, is looking at him with a hopeful smile, and Steve can’t help but think he’s right where he should be. 

** V **

“Why do we keep coming here, honestly, the coffee is horrible” 

“Don’t be such snob, Steve, you don’t even drink coffee” 

“I’m not a snob, _ Natasha _, I just know what I like,” 

She looks at him for a moment, and then bursts out laughing, bright and sparkling, loud enough to drown out the sounds of the traffic outside the window to their right. 

“You’re a snob, darling, but lucky for you I think its endearing – now be a good boy and eat your shortbread quietly,” 

He does, but only because he thinks she looks so pretty with the light hitting her just so – he tells her just as much, and gets a kiss for his trouble. 

_ -fin- _


End file.
